Fire and ice
by MAYALICE95
Summary: one wintry night, Hermione and Draco unite in an attempt to mend the broken pieces caused by Time.


**Fire and ice**

**Summary: **one wintry night, hermione and draco unite in an attempt to mend the broken pieces caused by Time.

_post war. _

thanks to my beta **useyourwandbro**

The rain was washing London's streets clean, as robed figureswere unhurriedly slipping out of a small, shabby looking inn called The Leaky Cauldron, into the dark street. The annual memorial service for victims of the war had just ended, and the atmosphere surrounding Diagon Alley's streets was heavy with grief, as Wizards and Witches wearing black robes and pointy hats made their way out, in groups.

Nobody wanted to be alone on a day such as this.  
A lonely figure was making her way down the dark street, seemingly untroubled by her solitude.  
Upon entering the Muggle street she removed her cloak, remaining in a thick burgundy sweater that reminded her of days past, and a black raincoat. She tucked her wand into the back pocket of her jeans, and continued to walk under the pouring rain. She didn't have an umbrella, and didn't mean to conjure herself one. Among Muggles, act like a Muggle, she muttered to herself, remembering she was once one of them.  
The rain kept intensifying as she headed deeper into Muggle London, wandering its alleys with no real purpose. The street lamps lit her briefly, revealing handsome features that didn't betray the fact she was in her early thirties. A feeble sound of music led her to an open door, and she entered a small pub that was crammed with people sheltering from the rain. She approached the bar, wishing they would serve Butterbeer, though on a day like this she wasn't opposed to a nice dose of Firewhiskey, when suddenly she heard a familiar voice behind her.

"Ugh, this tastes disgusting. Can't these Muggles even make proper alcohol?"

Her heart raced as she turned around. Draco Malfoy was sitting three chairs away, holding a half empty drink. Time has made changes in his appearance; his features grew somehow less sharp, and most of his face was covered with dense stubble. Fine wrinkles adorned his forehead, and his gray eyes seemed to her to be covered with a shroud of ice.  
To her surprise, she felt a familiar fire flare up inside her.  
"If I were you, I'd choose my words carefully on a day like this." Despite the heat she felt in her throat, the words that came out of her mouth were cool, disappointed.  
Draco turned around, as if struck by lightning; for a moment the surprise froze on his face, and he looked to her like a fragile ice sculpture. The next moment his eyes narrowed with overt hostility.  
"What are you doing here alone, Granger? Don't you have a flock of ginger children to take care of?"  
The fire within her flared up and went out again. A deep breath. You're not in Hogwarts anymore, she reminded herself, and Draco is no longer your enemy.  
She could tell him about Rose, who incessantly keeps asking questions about what happened during the war, and how for the first time in her life she finds no words to explain. She could talk about Hugo, who, since his trip in the pensieve (the door to Harry's workroom was open, and Hugo just had to test the clear silvery liquid inside), keeps waking up every night from nightmares about hissing snakes and red eyes, and sneaks into their bed, shaking. She could tell him about all of this, but somehow she felt she didn't have to. Because a part of her knew that underneath his icy mask, Draco understands.

Draco Malfoy had a rough day. On the official memorial service for the victims of the war, Draco felt detached. Out of place among the families of the fallen, who still saw him as a Death Eater, and a traitor among the few who remained loyal to Voldemort and didn't bother inviting him to their secret meetings. Not that he had any intention to participate in such meetings; he liked to think he knew better today. Nevertheless, the rejection from the people he once used to consider friends hit him straight in the ego. Thus he spent his days away from the Wizarding World, where no one's ever heard about Voldemort, where nobody chased him with cries of "Go to Azkaban". Where he could be just Draco. During one of his wanderings in the remote alleys of London, he came across a small pub; its dark corners were just right for a person seeking a place to hide. Although Draco doubted Wizards had much business in a place like this. They preferred Rosmerta's Mulled Mead that just like him got better with age, or to get drunk of a decent glass of Firewhiskey, rather than drink cheap Muggle beer. He kept grumbling incessantly about the terrible taste but continued to pour the bitter liquid down his throat, like a child swallowing abdominal pain syrup. Draco may have not been suffering physical pain, but he felt that he was burning from the inside.

Granger's voice caught him in the middle of his fifth glass, and despite the obvious anger in her voice, he felt himself being filled with pleasant warmth. He froze in his seat and met the fire in her eyes – just long enough to raise his old defenses, to pick up his wounded ego from the ground and fight back.  
"Don't you have a flock of ginger children to take care of?"  
As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. It was an automatic reaction, remnants of the old Draco still living and kicking inside of him.  
For a moment, Granger looked like she was going to slap him again, but then something in her expression softened. She rolled her eyes and discreetly took out her wand. She tapped his glass, and a moment later warm steam rose from it, and the familiar smell of Firewhiskey reached his nose.  
"Thanks," he murmured.  
Granger, who was busy with charming her own glass, simply smiled and did not respond.  
A silence fell, Draco's throat burned as he drained his glass in one gulp. Hermione sipped her drink slowly, looking thoughtful. Half an hour and multiple refilling spells later (the bartender scratched his head in confusion at the sight of glasses refilling themselves over and over), Draco spilled his heart out to Hermione.  
"I don't blame them for hating me, what with all they lost in the war, but what about what I lost? My father was left to rot in Azkaban, we lost everything we had to cover for the expanses of the trial, even the blasted House Elf, as if he was any help… Do you know how hard it is to raise a child with the economic reality of today, without a possibility to hire a proper sitter? This questionable pleasure in life is reserved for the Weasleys of the world, not the Malfoys. You don't look like a Weasley though, I hope for your own sake that your children look like you. They didn't inherit the nauseating red hair, did they? Those unruly curls of yours would be preferable over that. You don't actually look so bad from this angle, has anyone ever told you that?"  
Hermione, who was feeling rather hazy, was barely listening to his words. She caught the last sentence though, and tensed up. It's been years since Ron's told her she was beautiful, in fact, he was never good at expressing his feelings, but she loved him enough to accept him despite his flaws. But sometimes she missed it, and she needed someone to show her she was loved.  
It was a matter of a split second; the icy depths of his eyes met the warmth of her own. And all at once, Hermione got the urge to kiss him, an urge she repressed since school, and before the thought could fully form in her mind, before she could stop herself, her warm lips met the ice of his.

It was a whirlwind of emotions; her warm hands gripped Draco's body, like a drowning man holding onto a lifesaver. And the ice sculpture that was Draco, melted in her arms, holding her tighter than she ever expected, in an attempt to unfreeze his stagnation.  
She didn't think about Hugo, who was probably afraid to go sleep again, and she wasn't there to put him to bed. She didn't think about Ron, who hardly got out of bed for the past two weeks as was his custom each year when Fred's death anniversary got around and instead walked around the apartment in his pajamas, thinking about what was lost in the war. In fact, for a long moment she didn't think about anything apart from the raging fire within her.  
Draco did not delude himself for a second that Hermione was clinging to him out of love. It was desperation that drew her to him, but Draco didn't mind to be a tool in her game, same as she was merely a tool in his.  
Hermione let out a cry of surprise as he pulled her into a side room, but she kept kissing him fiercely, even though there was a draft and frozen drops of rain dripped on them from the ceiling, and it was messy and dirty and wrong. She felt like she was on fire. Years of anger, hatred and despair burned in her throat, and she had to turn them to someone as miserable as she was, someone who wouldn't mind to burn with her.  
The Dark Mark stood out on Draco's left forearm like a permanent scar. And both of them knew there are marks that time cannot erase, whether they are engraved deep inside the skin, or inside the soul. And it was both right and wrong at the same time, and it slid down his throat like a cube of ice when they got rid of the clothes and there were no masks left to hide behind.  
When morning dawned, flames of fire and shreds of ice recreated humans, sober, guilty. They slipped into their robes and went back to their lives.  
Hermione stepped into the drowsy house and peered into Hugo's room, who was sleeping peacefully. She cautiously sneaked into her room, slipped under the covers, and felt Ron's arms tighten around her. Perhaps today she will persuade him to get out of bed, perhaps today…

When Draco entered his home, Astoria was waiting for him. She wasn't angry about his absence, nor did she complain about being worried. In fact, she didn't say anything; just led him silently into their room, and helped him slip into his pajamas. With Draco by her side, Astoria was fast asleep in a matter of minutes. But Draco lay awake for a long while thinking about all that happened and why it happened and What he could have done differently .Until finally exhaustion overwhelmed him and he sank into a deep sleep.  
Perhaps it was the winter and the loneliness that characterized it, that brought them together. Or maybe it was fate that determined that on one wintry night, two lost souls would unite in an attempt to mend the broken pieces caused by Time.


End file.
